Chapter 2

At least, she looks like a princess now, I think as I watch Lily sleeping soundly in her bed in her pink pajamas, stuffed toys on either side of her heart-shaped pillow, and a blanket with her favorite Disney princesses pulled up to her shoulders. Her cheeks are clean now and all traces of my ruby red lipstick is gone, though I can’t say the same for my recipe book. On her head is her plastic tiara.

I carefully take the tiara off and set it down on the bedside table around her Tinker Bell snow globe and run my fingers gently through her soft, reddish curls, which she must have inherited from her mother.

Poor girl. To think she never knew her mother.

Looking at Lily, I feel a slight pang in my heart. My mother meant the world to me up until the day she passed away a few years ago due to kidney failure. To this day, though, she serves as my inspiration. Her influence is apparent in my desserts, and some of her recipes are still among mine. I can’t imagine how my life would be if I didn’t have her.

And yet, this girl doesn’t have a mother. She barely even has a father. Ben works hard to provide for her needs and is stuck to his laptop even when he’s home. Gemma was the person Lily looked up to, the one who cared for her. And now, Gemma’s gone, off to marry someone and start her own family, and I’m left to fill her shoes.

I’m the only one Lily has. How can I leave?

Sure, she has a bit of mischief in her. Sure, she can be bossy like her father, who just gave me a longer list of rules to follow than my most meticulous cooking instructor. And, sure, it’s becoming more and more obvious that Gemma spoiled her quite a bit. But in the end, she’s just a little girl who desperately needs someone to understand and take care of her. When she gives that toothless smile, she just melts my heart and all my worries away, making me think that maybe, just maybe, this job isn’t so bad after all.

Then, of course, there’s Ben, that delectable treat that I just can’t pass up.

I wonder how he’ll taste.

I turn off the lamp and leave the room quietly, leaving the door ajar. I tiptoe down the hall and head to the kitchen, only to stop when I hear sounds coming from Ben’s room.

Curious, I press my ear to the door. My cheeks grow hot as I realize they’re grunts, gasps, and curses.

What the hell?

I suppose this is normal. He’s a virile male in his early thirties without a wife or girlfriend. Of course, he’d need to find a way to get rid of all that pent-up… whatever it is that makes cocks hard and panties damp.

Speaking of damp panties, mine are getting wet as my heart pounds and sends heat throughout the rest of my body. How I wish I could see through the door. I can see him sitting on the edge of his bed – or is it standing against a wall? – his head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted. His briefs are lowered and his long, thick, swollen cock is between his fingers as he jerks his hand back and forth.

Fuck.

Just the thought of it makes me want to rush in there. I imagine myself kneeling in front of him, sucking him off while his fingers become entangled in my hair. My right hand drops to my waist, slips beneath my waistband and slowly touches that part of me that is as wet and as hot as caramel on a stove, ready to reach its boiling point.

Just then, I hear footsteps approaching the door – he’s already done? – and I pull my hand out of my pants, scrambling to the kitchen. Moments later, he follows, still panting. When I turn around, I find him covered in a sheet of sweat, the front of his gray shirt drenched.

He wipes some sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Whew. That felt good.”

“I bet it did,” I blurt out without thinking.

As soon as I’ve said it, I look away, blushing. I’ve never been good at holding my tongue, but that was a complete slip.

Oh, Michelle, how can you be so stupid?

Thankfully, Ben doesn’t seem offended. He leans on the end of the counter that I’m not cleaning up as he gulps down his water.

“Do you also work out?” he asks after drinking.

Work out? I guess that’s another way to say it.

But, seriously, is he asking me what I think he’s asking?

“When the need arises, yes,” I answer truthfully. “I mean, we all have to—”

“Take care of our bodies?” he finishes as he puts his bottle back and grabs a chocolate bar.

“Yeah.” I nod.

I guess that is essential in taking care of our physical well-being. After all, it can’t be good to—

“Don’t you think you should do it more regularly, though?”

Thank goodness I’m not carrying anything breakable, or I might have dropped it. As it is, I turn to him and place my hands on my hips.

“You know, Mr. Shore, it really isn’t any of your business, is it?”

Ben lifts his hands. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Still, I continue, “What I do with my body and my spare time isn’t any of your concern. So whether I do it everyday or twice a month, whether it’s with my bare fingers or the handle of a hair brush, it’s not…”

“Hair brush?” Ben’s eyes narrow. “How on earth do you work out with the handle of a hair brush?”

And just like that, it occurs to me that he was actually talking about working out.

Fuck.

Of course that’s what he was doing. Why on earth did I think he was talking about anything else? Why would he when his daughter was sleeping in the next room?

I feel like slapping myself in the forehead. With a shovel.

“Michelle?”

“Sorry. I think I’ll go to bed now,” I mumble, heading back to my room before I melt from embarrassment.

Seriously, Michelle, what were you thinking?